Most of the time when I write something, I have a point to make. Not necessarilly anything deep or thought provoking. But at least a beginning and an end, with some sort of resolution.

This column is different. I saw a baby in the median of a busy street a few days ago and I’m still thinking about her. I have no resolution.

She couldn’t have been more than a few months old, resting directly on the grass under the shade of a tall tree. No blanket underneath. A woman sitting a foot or two away, her back against the tree, weaving small crosses out of the thin strands of palm leaves. There was a pile on her right of completed crosses; a palm frond on her left providing more leaves to be weaved.

I’ve seen the crosses many times before, in stores and on the street. But I’ve never purchased one.

The median is no more than two yards wide. Cars passed on the left, just a few feet from the baby as they moved through the traffic light. I idled on the right, waiting for my own light to change. My window was down, two bags of groceries on the seat beside me. There was milk for my youngest grandson, strawberry yogurt for his brother, and ice cream for all of us.

I researched the crosses when I got home. They’re common in Mexico, where the making of them is sometimes handed down through generations. After being blessed by a priest, they are often hung from front doors to keep evil from entering and the people inside safe.

The baby was neatly dressed in a cotton onesie with pink trim and smiling bears on the feet. A father or other family member was somewhere on the street, I assumed. In another lane of traffic, walking between cars with a handful of the completed crosses for sale. I didn’t see him, but the woman making the crosses made no effort to sell them.

Part of me wanted to take a picture. I had my phone with me and easily could have. But it seemed intrusive. And I wasn’t sure what the picture would say. Or what I wanted it to say.

We come to a foreign country with our own preconceptions of how life should be lived. And a baby in the median doesn’t fit into any of mine.

But this baby appeared healthy, happy, and had a care-giver nearby. Maybe my slot is too restrictive.

I don’t know.

I only know that I’ll likely buy the next woven cross that’s offered to me on the street.  And I hope that there’s one hanging on the door of the baby in the median.